


The Sunset of Emotions

by kdencayden



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Gen, Implied OCD, M/M, POV Second Person, Synesthesia, gavin equates his emotions and experiences to colours, implied depression, mentioned alcohol use, mentioned anxiety, mentioned drug use, mentioned self-harm, nothing is explicit or even graphic but it is there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 05:05:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5034916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kdencayden/pseuds/kdencayden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I had a dream about you. I said green was blue and yellow, and you said green was yellow and blue. You were like that with everything I said, taking the exact opposite stance, yet completely agreeing with me. That’s how I knew you loved me.” <br/>― Jarod Kintz, Dreaming is for Lovers</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red

Red is bad.

Red is Michael’s anger, thick tendrils of a nearly maroon that threaten to puncture your skin if you’re not careful. It’s everything about Rage Quit, even the name leaving its nasty, red, fake cherry taste in your mouth.

Red is Geoff’s tears, after the drunken smile has faded and you’re left with a broken man, the bittersweet almond regret turning icy cold as hunter green fades to red. It’s waking up alone, no one around to comfort you, to assure you that the dreams were, in fact, just that.

Red is what the cold edge of Ryan’s voice is, the flare in Ryan’s eyes as he acts the part of Mad King. It’s not natural, it’s too bright, it’s uncomfortable, and the plastic smell makes you cringe.

Red is too-loud music that’s screaming at you and trying to make you upset, it’s stale beer, spilt liquor, a stressed out Miles literally in tears because he hasn’t slept in days. It’s peanut butter stuck to the roof of your mouth, a crumpled ball of not-good-enough ideas. It’s the uneasy smile you give people who make you uncomfortable, like that man who helped you choose your apartment, standing too close and whispering about how dangerous the city could be for pretty boys who lived alone.

Red is Michael pushing your hands away, a hissed ‘not tonight’ bouncing around your head. Michael’s yellow hurts your eyes, in that moment, and you want nothing more than to tone it down with your blue, but you know that right now Michael doesn’t WANT blue, he wants to be ANGRY, he wants to be RED.

Red is when Michael cries. Michael only cries when he’s TOO angry to care, every ragged breath red flowing out from Michael and filling the space between you, keeping you rooted in your spot, afraid to enter the red cloud for fear it may consume you.

Red is the sick feeling in your stomach every time you and Michael have a fight. It’s crying yourself to sleep on the couch, because it’s too late and too cold to get back to your own apartment. It’s waking up to realize Michael’s left for work without you, and having to call Geoff to come pick you up. It’s the tenseness at the office every day until the fight is over, it’s jumping out of your skin every time Michael so much as breathes, afraid that this time he really will lose his temper and hit you. It’s wondering why Michael only hits you in your dreams, wondering why your subconscious would cast that image onto him when it wasn’t true.

Red is talking to Michael through a bathroom door, after you’ve locked yourself in. It’s hearing how broken his voice sounds, how worried he is. His hands tremble and you can feel the vibration in your very soul, stabbing into you like pink spikes of self-blame. It’s falsely promising him that this will be the last time you hurt yourself because of him, because you can’t stop, he’s too good, he’s too good for you, and your heart bleeds cherry-red at the very thought.

Red is evil, it's angry, and it's, quite frankly, not very nice.


	2. Orange

Orange is sharp.

Orange is too-hot stinging jealousy pricking at the soles of your feet. It’s the too-tight feeling in your stomach looking at Ray when he’s happy, the angry harsh lines brushing your vision and clouding your ability to be PROUD of your friend.

Orange is a raised voice, it’s CAPSLOCK, it’s your harsh whining when you’ve messed something up. It’s the noise that Grand Theft Auto makes when you die, and the flashing of the wanted stars in the corner of the screen.

Orange is the feeling you get when you put the flash-drive in upside down, flip it over, and it’s still not right. It’s putting a key into a lock that it’s unlocked every day before and the hitch your breath takes when it doesn’t work right away. It’s flat soda, the steady beeping of the alarm on your watch, dust on the top of your computer if you don’t brush it off every other day or so.

Orange is Jack’s voice when his allergies are acting up. It’s Geoff’s laughter, too loud, bubbling up visibly in the man. It’s tripping on the edge of a rug that’s been rolled up and spilling your drink on yourself, and it’s thinking you’ve put your headphones on correctly but they’re really on backwards. It’s dyslexia, being told to go left and going right instead, not knowing what the difference between 5th STREET and 5th AVENUE is, when it’s a difference of almost 5 miles.

Orange is getting into the shower when the water isn’t hot enough yet, it’s taking a bite of food that’s too hot, it’s everything happening too sudden to feel real, gone too quick to be a part of.

Orange cuts you, and everything around you, in its wake.


	3. Yellow

Yellow is love.

Yellow is the look of adoration in Michael’s eyes when you get brought up somewhere you physically aren’t. It’s the text from ‘Micoo’ in your phone that says “I miss and love you, boi,” when you’re in England, and it’s the reply text of “I love you too, boi! Only X more days to go!”

Yellow is feeling Michael’s tattoos under your fingertips, brushing the lines of the too-familiar triforce for the umpteenth time and feeling Michael’s content sigh against your own chest. It’s the look on Michael’s face immediately after you ask a ridiculous question, his mouth moving to repeat the question to himself. 

Yellow is being on the podcast, grinning and telling dumb stories with your friends. It’s having lunch with all of the Achievement Hunters, quiet except for the noises of eating and the occasional discussion of something, work related or not.

Yellow is being at the Ramsey’s house, it’s Griffon showing you the details of her latest project and Millie telling you about school, it’s Geoff grilling and Michael laughing as he holds a beer on the back porch. It’s after Millie has gone to bed and Griffon retrieves their stash of pot, the strawberry haze smoke dancing purple around your heads and Michael and Geoff’s twin laughter, too gone to care.

Yellow is the swell of pride in your chest when you see all that you’ve accomplished, all that your FRIENDS have accomplished, with or without you. It’s the sense that floods you when you wrap up one project, beckons you towards newer and better and bigger. It’s screaming fans and hugs from people you’ve never met and never will meet again, it’s an RTX panel as it just begins, the swell of energy in the room.

Yellow is when the video cameras turn off, when the recording for the day is done, and everyone sinks comfortably back to their true selves, rather than the exaggerated stage versions. It’s hearing Ryan call his wife, voice hushed so he doesn’t get made fun of again. It’s sending Michael instant messages even though the man is 5 feet from you, and tweeting nonsensical things just to confuse the world.

Yellow is Michael, down on one knee, it’s your tears and screaming “Yes! Yes, a million times yes!” It’s the first hug you get from Dan as one of you is fresh off the plane. It’s the too tight hug Geoff gives you when you return home.

Yellow is love of all kinds, in its purest form.

Yellow is Michael Jones.


	4. Green

Green is good.

Green is the colour of Michael’s laughter, a bright honey green that tastes like apples. It’s when Michael kisses you, and, out of habit or because he has to, kisses your right cheek afterwards.  

Geoff’s dopey drunken smile is green too, a sad hunter green that tastes like regret and makes you feel warm. It’s holding onto the man for dear life, hearing him shushing your fears, muting your nightmares.

Green is the colour that Ryan’s breath makes when he’s frustrated, huffing little puffs of green as he brushes his hair back and stares at his computer screen, intent on figuring out where to go from here.

Green is Simon and Garfunkel music, the fizzy sound of opening a new beer, when Miles rubs his temples because he’s smiled his way into another headache. It’s caramel in your mouth, a pen on fresh paper, your cat’s purring, the satisfaction of a freshly rendered video.

Green is the colour that your blue skin makes when it touches Michael’s yellow skin. Michael is yellow, he is the sun and the stars and a bright happy colour that you adore. You hate that the yellow turns green, that it’s tainted by your blue, but the green makes you happy nonetheless, a good runner-up to Michael’s yellow.

Green is the colour of Michael’s ragged panting as he throws his head back, coming undone in your grip. When Michael moans, it’s green, and you want to eat it up, suck the green into your lungs and hold it there until it infects you completely.

Green is fireworks in the sky, it's your favourite song on the radio without you requesting it, it's going to a restaurant and finding out they have exactly the drink you want at that moment.

Green is the little things in life.


	5. Blue

Blue is bad.

Blue is the trembling of a left-alone you, sitting on the floor of your bathroom with your knees clutched to your chest. It’s the blood in your veins threatening to pour out onto the white (really) tiles, the frantic repeating of your tics, stepping on the tiles, one, two, turn, one, two, turn, don’t touch the edges.

Blue ices your fingertips if you sit still for too long, spreading through your body and making you shiver. If you get up and pace the room the icy tendrils consuming you will slow, but never stop. You just want them to stop.

Blue is the shiver in your spine, the apology on your lips, the bandages Michael dutifully wraps round your wrists. It’s banging your head on the wall once, twice, three, four, and then one more for good measure. It’s having to find the same spot and bang your head a sixth time to make things right again.

Blue is repeating words until they lose their meanings, sometimes unimportant ones like ‘next’ but sometimes the important ones too. It’s repeating Michael’s name until it doesn’t even sound like a word, until it sounds like a chant or a prayer, and maybe you are praying, in your blue way, to a yellow god to make your world green.

Blue is knowing that Michael is the saint and you the sinner, that Michael is holy above all else, that he’s something you should be, and are, in awe of. Blue is even straight lines on your hips, one two three, one two three. It’s hearing static in your head and losing track of time, how long have you been staring at that blue (not really) space, Gavin?

Blue is good.

Blue is a sleepy Dan, barely awake and barely responding in the Skype call. It’s his sleepy princess sighs as he loses the fight with sleep, it’s your giggles, it’s blowing the man kisses he’ll never receive before turning Skype off.

Blue is Ray streaming, snuggled up in his sweatshirt and talking to the fans, talking to Tina, smile pasted on his face. He’s happier than he has been, and you nearly envy him, though you try your best to keep your jealous orange out of it.

Blue is being hugged against Jack’s chest so tightly you think you might burst, it’s the pat on the shoulder you get from Burnie, it’s everyone laughing at your jokes.

Blue is your medication washing over your anxiety and finally, _blissfully,_ drowning it out. It’s reading bad poetry, writing worse poetry, and sharing worst poetry. It’s meeting a friendly dog on the street who runs up to you so you can pet him, it’s kittens at the Humane Society playing in their cage with each other, unaware that they may find themselves in new, separate, homes by sundown.

Blue is both.

The month of October is blue, Twenty-One Pilots’ music is blue, filming for Slo-Mo Guys is blue too, to you, at least. Lindsay and Jordan writing for X-Ray and Vav is definitely blue, the two laughing at their own jokes and sharing them with you. Blue’s buying new shoes, wearing exactly the right sweater for the weather at hand, adding the right amount of sugar to your tea in only two tries, Joel’s svelte voice turning loud as he talks about something that he’s passionate about.

Blue is isolation, it’s you on your own in your apartment with the music loud enough to drown out your tears but never loud enough to drown out your thoughts. It’s the cacophony of sensation that barrages you wherever you go. It’s trying to explain to Michael what you mean when you call Michael yellow, when you say that regret tastes like almonds, that jealousy is a bright ugly orange that smells like highlighters and makes you want to cry. Blue is angry fans and angsty fanfiction, it’s expecting a package that arrives two weeks late, and trying to tear a sheet of paper out of your notebook but only succeeding to rip it in two.

Blue is both.

Blue is the simultaneous thrill and fear a roller coaster brings, it’s the symmetry and asymmetry of the diet coke cans on either side of Ryan’s computer, three finished on the left, one open, four finished on the right. It’s Michael’s errant curls in your fists before he cuts his hair, it’s the feeling of running your hands through Michael’s freshly shorn hair, nothing to grab onto. It’s a series of opposites, night and day, cold and warm, empty and full. It’s what you are and what you aren’t.

Blue is Gavin.


	6. Purple

Purple is calm.

Purple is smoke in your face, the far away glazed over look that Michael gets when he’s stoned, Geoff and Griffon singing along to Pink Floyd, reminiscing about days gone by.

Purple is every bev you've ever drank, every buzz you've ever gotten, it’s the time you tried LSD in high school. It’s grown men having sleepovers, too drunk to go home. It’s playing Never Have I Ever in the middle of the night with Kerry, Michael, and Miles, and figuring out slowly just how deep Miles’ kinks went. It’s playing Surgeon Simulator with Michael and finally winning with the organ named after you.

Purple is lying in bed after the light’s been turned out, hearing your breath mesh with Michael’s. It’s the dog you adopted crawling up onto the bed even though Michael doesn’t like him there, it’s a thunderstorm as the backdrop while Michael makes hot chocolate.

Purple is breakfast in bed, a day off of work, going to the aquarium and getting to pet one of the dolphins. It’s sleeping in an airplane and waking up somewhere new, it’s the package of Oreos with enough cookies missing that you don’t feel guilty for taking ten. It’s holding shopping bags full of Christmas presents and running through the mall parking lot, it’s pegging Michael with a snowball and laughing that it had enough force to knock his glasses off.

Purple is the domestic tug at your heart when you see people with children. It’s cautiously and carefully filling out paperwork, and waiting, waiting, waiting. It’s Michael pacing the hospital waiting room, worried about a girl that you both barely know, the one who signed up to give you her child. It’s holding your child, a daughter, in your arms for the first time, and it’s watching Michael cry as she closes her hand around his finger.

Purple is everything you never expected, and everything you always wanted.

Purple is knowing that everything is going to be okay.


End file.
